


Zebras and Flamingos -- Judge and Jury

by Astrid_B_Caine



Category: Boston Legal, Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Bay City Present Tense Big Bang 2013-2014, Character Death, Crossover, Domestic Bliss, Lawyers, Loving Marriage, M/M, My First AO3 Post, No Apologies, No Smut, No Torino, Podfic Welcome, Post Series, Post Sweet Revenge, Rescue, Series Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Wealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrid_B_Caine/pseuds/Astrid_B_Caine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky and Hutch/Boston Legal crossover. It's 2014 and Starsky and Hutch are enjoying their well deserved retirement, when they get a letter from Alan Shore asking them to come to Boston, to meet an associate of Hutch's post-retirement legal-aid activities. They have no idea what they will be asked to do when they get there, but they wouldn't be true to themselves if they didn't find out beforehand all they could about this mysterious, legally unbeatable and possibly criminal Alan Shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zebras and Flamingos -- Judge and Jury

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATED: 15 June 2014. Now it's the final version! Just some touch-ups, nothing major.
> 
> THANKS: I would like to thank my beta, Onkoona. Spelling USA spell-checked. Any remaining mistakes are totally mine. (English is not my first language.) A Great Big Thank You to Flamingo for the Bay City Big Bang and some final edits. All are much appreciated!  
> Cover art by mella68 (posted on the Bay City Big Bang LJ). My great thanks!  
> http://baycitybigbang.livejournal.com/
> 
> This story AND ARTWORK on the S/H Archive:  
> http://www.starskyhutcharchive.net/viewstory.php?sid=1261&chapter=1
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters.
> 
> WARNING: Death of main character from Boston Legal.

****

## **Zebras and Flamingos -- Judge and Jury**

## by Astrid B. Caine

#####  A Starsky and Hutch/Boston Legal crossover 

#####  for the Bay City Present Tense Big Bang 2013-2014 

 

“Boston?!”

“That's what it says,” I sipped my coffee, sitting comfortably at our breakfast bar in Venice, Los Angeles. Starsky buzzed about, being all domestic.

“But what the hell's in Boston?” Starsky continued his very own version of washing dishes.

“Remember that charity thing I signed up for back in 2009?” I pulled out the envelope of the summons we were discussing. The Crane On Shore logo was clearly showing at the top left corner. Proud and bold, with some air of sophistication. It had captured my imagination from my first contact with this benevolent foundation, not that I would admit that to Starsky of course. And after discussing it with my life-long and very opinionated partner, I had signed up. That was four years ago.

“Course – four years ago. What about it?” Starsky protested.

“Well, I signed up, so here we are. We're going to Boston.”

Starsky's hands stopped. He looked straight at me and gave me a you-win smirk. “I always wanted to see Boah-sten,” he drawled. “We don't take enough vacations, anyway.”

I plunked down my coffee. “We've been retired since the early naughties!”

A wink was my reward. “And we keep getting naughtier, ever year. Besides, you still ain't properly retired, hotshot.”

When being a cop became all about fighting the system and losing, tossing in my badge had been on my mind every day. Then that got horrifically topped off with Starsky almost dying, so I truly did toss it all in. I gave Dobey my badge, apologized to Starsky and promised to make it up to him by staying in the same field. I fell back on my two years in law school. My grades had always been fine, but it was my Police career that got me bumped up quickly in Law School. They love experience over there, and above all: awards.

When they found out I wasn't a bad student, they were just falling over themselves to make me comfortable. Honestly, compared with trawling the streets for low life scum to keep men, women and children safe in their own neighborhoods, studying the letter of the law was a walk in the park.

I finished my degree and specialized of sorts in hard-luck cases. Starsky told me he expected me to carry my part of the load now that I had a fancy degree, but if I were to work closely with the Police department, I couldn't take on too many money-making cases.

We always hated lawyers, my partner and me. Money grabbing, no good hounds with ethics that were for sale to the highest bidder. Starsky didn't say it, but I had defected in a sense, which was something to be weary of, which I was, and still am. Now that I'm one of them, I still intend to be one of the good guys. But I did pay my due diligence, and made sure I put bread on our table. My Starsky should never have to worry about another penny, as long as I'm around.

I blinked out of the thought pattern I'd gotten caught up in. I saw Starsky was back to the task of fitting three day's worth of dishes and pans in the dishwasher. He'd been adamant about getting the biggest honking dishwasher that we could fit into our minimally styled kitchen, since the day he'd turned in his badge. 'If I'm gonna be a house-wife, I want all modern conveniences that go with it,' he had declared.

And so we'd purchased the best washers, dryers and steam-irons that we could put our hands on. After an adequate amount of consumer research, of course, which I preferred to do myself. Or at the very least supervise his. I gladly left the car-choices up to the expert, but Starsky doesn't have the patience that goes along with comparison shopping without buying until we've seen them all. I on the other hand would sit happily, with a root beer and a laptop, reading specifications and user reviews before making a decision. But let Starsky into a store, and we'd come out with the credit card a whole lot lighter, and two-thirds needing to be returned afterward anyway. And that'd be on a good day.

I shook my head at the memories of domestic retirement bliss in the making. Naughties, indeed. They should call us the Double Naughties.

“So what's in Boston anyway that needs your special expertise, Blondie?”

“Well, it's more like, they need both of us.”

Starsky dropped the pots and pans he was soaping up, and grabbed the letter with a hand full of suds. “What? Me too?”

I couldn't keep from internally flashing back in time. It had been a while since anyone had asked for Starsky. But then, he had held on for ages in the Captain's chair, until I had finally convinced him to take retirement after thirty years of service.

'Enough's enough,' I'd told him one night in bed, massaging his aching back, when all other dutiful cops had been sound asleep and collecting new energy for the next workday. 'You did your thirty. You are due for retirement. Don't you dare make this about failure. Twenty fucking years of working with the pain and strain on your body after recovering from being dead. Dead.” I didn't have to raise my voice. Just saying it in a normal voice was too loud already. I rarely brought it up, but Starsky had been dead. Briefly but definitively. And all these extra years had been a gift to me: having Starsk alive, to touch, to hear him laugh. But it was a hard gift, even so.

Starsky had never been able to go back to street duty, which had broken his heart, I knew all too intimately. Starsky'd never said it, but something like that doesn't need to be put into words. It was always the truth, before and after Gunther.

So in the face of the alternative – which was being dead – I had watched Starsky as he had made it work. Like a dutiful son, he'd smiled for his mom, when we'd told her about him passing the Lieutenant’s exam. But he never told her he'd taken the promotion in order to get off the streets. I'd started to breathe easier then. And later, Starsky had taken over from Dobey. A happy arrangement all around. Life'd been good again and my breathing almost got back to normal, until the doctors' warnings started coming. The various stresses and strains of the job over time had taken such a toll on Starsky, all he could do was hold on for dear life until the precious three-oh. And I just held on so I could be the pillar for my partner to hold onto. Never let go, never let slip. Until the flaming three-oh.

I grabbed the paper away from the soapy fingers.

“There are people out there who appreciate a Starsky when they see one, you know,” I planted a quick kiss on the forehead across the breakfast bar. “Me being one of them.”

“Mush,” Starsky stated plainly. But I could swear he was suppressing a self-satisfied grin.

Retirement for my partner had started thirteen years ago, and he was still alive. I've been able to breathe normally for thirteen years now. I'd started counting the days since retirement, and then weeks, and then months. Now I was counting years, even decades of breathing easily. Life was so good, I couldn't believe it. Maybe my untamable Starsky had finally mellowed in his mature years. Maybe, maybe not. At any rate, we were still here. Eat that, Gunther!

“So what do they want us to do?”

I started scanning the page. “Me, the job I signed up for when they opened. To give legal and moral assistance to someone in need.” In fact, it had been one of the most refreshing offers I had ever had, in my second career, and had needed a bit of paranoia time to verify how legit Crane On Shore was. It turned out to be on the up and up, and I only had downright decent dealings with them from the very beginning. I considered them good people.

“But that's a fair while ago. Why have they not used you before?”

“They have, in a way, at my Monday and Thursday sessions at the legal aid office. Their requests come in regularly. It's always about small-time cases, people who need a little more legal advice or help than the normal pro bono consult affords. Besides, they send the requests to the office email account, not to me personally. I haven't seen a formal letter arrive from them since I signed up and filled in a gazillion forms for them.” I recalled some more detail. “You know, I didn't really feel like those forms were their true measure of a man anyway.”

“How's that?” Starsky slipped into detective mode, something so natural to him, as green as grass and as sweet as ice cream. He just loved all the little details.

“In the end I got a call from a man named Alan Shore, who wanted to interview me over the phone. He asked me wholly different questions than simple stats and form entries, which I hadn't even sent off yet. Mostly he seemed interested in my general opinions. How my experience as a cop has shaped my thoughts about the treatment I'd give those in need. Any prejudices I might have.”

“Or he might want you to have.” Starsky wiped the soap off his hands with a towel and poured himself a coffee as well. He sat down on the other bar stool. “I always interviewed for opinions too when I was selecting new people for the squadroom. You gotta know a man through his heart, not his credentials. Alphabet soup is right there on paper and if they ain't got the right training, it's not going to go anywhere. But training can be got. Heart comes with the guy.” He shrugged. “Or the woman.”

I shrugged too. Far too few women in our field of work, even today. “Here's to the next Cagney and Lacey,” I said, toasting my coffee mug against his. Starsky was a great fan of TV shows on DVDs these days. He was always telling me about a new cop show he had found that aired some time in the seventies or eighties. He was enjoying series made in our contemporary years better than the modern stuff. I suspect it's the nostalgia versus the realism that is guiding him there. He's been watching a fair amount of current crime and police shows, but he never seems to be able to gush about them like the older ones. Unless they are funny, like a quirky little show called Common Law recently. He actually sat me down to watch it with him. My jaw dropped at how perfectly they got a lot of the stuff. Starsky just loved the hell out of it.

“To Cagney and Lacey,” my beautiful partner said. “So about this Shore guy. Never heard back from him?”

“Nope, but he hired me. This letter doesn't give much clarity either. But one thing is certain,” as I pulled out the two first class airplane tickets. “They want us at the head office. And they want us now.”

~~~

The Head Office of Crane On Shore turned out to be the Crane residence in the more than well-to-do suburbs of Boston. We parked across the street from the house, and I handed Starsk his portable coffee. He peered at the house.

“This is not a stake-out,” I said, noting the suspicious glint in his eyes.

“Who says?” He put his coffee in the cup holder, took out his tablet and started whizzing away on it.

My turn to stare at the gorgeous house. I knew all about gorgeous houses. This one didn't only reek of money – self-made and proud – but also of a touch of class. There was also some charm and amusement about it, cheekiness and humor, with a bit of wonder. I had never seen a house like that in the expensive areas of Duluth or in L.A., regardless of all the riches that had been displayed before me in years gone by. Years? Decades! It had me riveted. I couldn't help but wonder why this house made me want to live there, and those other bombastic blocks of boastful capitalism never did.

“What is it about this picture that isn't right?” I murmured.

“They're probably on the take,” Starsky said dead-panned. He wasn't nearly as deeply sucked into the splendor as I was. I knew just one glance told him all he needed to know. Big money meant nothing to him. A pizza was a perfectly fine definition of money-purchased happiness for my partner. Something I always appreciated about him.

“David Michael Starsky, as cynical as we both are after all these years--”

“Didn't take you years to get cynical, sweet cakes,” he grinned.

“Is there any reason why this can't be the house of a bunch of hard-working and honest lawyers?” I had really never had an indication of any shady side to the Crane On Shore Legal Assistance Foundation. Quite the opposite, actually. The jobs they sent my way had been very deserving of extra help, and it was usually something that I was capable of accomplishing. It's like their Human Resources were taking effort to match up, not just by location all over the country, but also by ability and special skills and experience.

Blue eyes focused on me. “Honest lawyers don't get this rich.”

I shrugged, basically agreeing with what my partner was saying. We both knew it was true. “So whatcha got?”

“Hug says iffy stuff's going on. I don't like it.”

“'Iffy' is kinda vague.”

“No kidding. Still, we need to be on the look-out. Crane himself is not yet in his grave. Died two days ago at Boston Memorial. Shore at his side. Heart attack.”

“Really? I thought the guy had some debilitating disease.”

“That too, but his heart seems to have given out before the degeneration could get him.”

I looked back at the house. It was gloomier now, like a cloud had just come over. But the sky was as clear as it had been a few minutes ago. “Sometimes it's for the best.”

Starsky's answer was to do some more magic on his tablet. I've gotta hand it to him, he learned all this new technology. I never got past the laptop stage, which was enough for me to get by. But Starsk did insist on me using a smart phone, so by now I had the basics down for texting, instant messaging and email. I left the more time-consuming side of the Information Age to him, allowing myself some time for my daily rounds of the legal aid office and victim care police unit.

The gloominess seemed to have lifted from the house.

“Right, so that's probably what he wants us for then.” I reached for the car door handle. “Let's go do a bit of hand holding and sort out the paperwork for the Boston Yuppies.”

“Hold your horses just a bit. You haven't heard the half of it yet.”

I sat back again – checking we still had half an hour before our appointment. “Lay it on me.”

“This Shore-dude. He's been arrested a few times, and Hug says, shoulda been arrested a few more.”

Once is to be expected if he's any kind of self-respecting Criminal Law attorney. I had been around the block myself. It wasn't always possible to keep from contempt of Court when asked to reveal sources, etcetera. It wasn't pretty, but Shore was probably the type of guy who got the job done, no matter what. “Arrested for what?”

“Several times for insulting the court – it would be worrisome if he had never been held in contempt – but then there are charges of sexual harassment at work. Alan Shore was fired for suspected embezzling from a previous employer. No charges. I wonder how he got out of that one.”

“What type of law firm was this? And when?”

“Anti-trust. September 2003.”

I shrugged. “Probably made a deal with the company. Maybe he knew far more damning stuff about his superiors, so they would prefer to just fire him, rather than face counter-charges.”

Starsky looked dubious. “Or they framed him. Scapegoat scenario.”

“Altogether possible. What about this sexual harassment stuff?”

“Again, nothing stuck, at least not on his public record.”

“What happened after that anti-trust case?”

“It pretty much goes down from there. He switched companies twice until he landed with Chang, Poole and Schmidt in 2004. Crane was still on the letterhead at that time. Shore got arrested for conspiracy to commit assault and battery in 2005.”

“Convicted?”

“Nope, but it did go to trial.”

“Acquitted then. Doesn't count. So far he may be squeaky clean.”

“Like I said, he's held in contempt of court and detained on a number of cases, most of which he won. Happens to the best of us,” Starsky grinned. Me too. “Right. Sexual harassment at work seems to regularly pop up throughout his career.”

“Any convictions or arrests?”

“None.” Starsky met my eye. He was unconvinced. “Many a secretary left citing his leching and verbal directness, but none of them would bring formal charges. They seem to describe him as creepily honest.”

I mentally tipped my hat to Huggy's intel system. It rocked. “Okay, what else have you got.”

“Crane – Denny Crane, formerly of Crane, Poole and Schmidt – got himself arrested a handful of times. Court cases, mostly defended by Shore. Mostly acquitted.”

“What type of charges?”

“Obstruction of Justice, 2005. Smuggling medical waste out of the country, 2007. Soliciting a prostitute, and soliciting sex in the Court's men's room. Also 2007.”

“On separate occasions, I assume. That's quite a list.”

“It gets better. He shoots a mugger three times with a concealed weapon in 2008. Pleads self-defense.”

“Three shots ain't self defense.”

“No kidding.”

“Well, Crane is dead. All we have to worry about is Shore.”

“Who also got arrested for assisting an adulterer in Utah in 2008.”

“The adulterer?”

“Crane.”

Of course. “Colorful bunch.” Just like the house, which I still liked. In fact, I liked all the irreverence and craziness I was hearing. “No convictions, I take it?”

“You got it. Got banned from Utah for life for that one.”

“I bet that didn't keep them up crying at night.”

“One final thing, though.”

“And that is?”

“Before they founded Crane On Shore, Alan Shore and Denny Crane got married in oh-eight.”

I stared at my husband.

“It looks legit.”

I didn't know where all that air had come from that was suddenly oppressing me. Was I surprised? Did this create a bond between us, even though we really didn't know these men? They sounded like partners, just like us. But that doesn't make us spiritual brothers, does it? They met later in life, and they had had less time together than we've had. So was it really comparable?

All I knew for sure right there and then was that we had been blessed. Four decades together! We had been granted precious time most people can only dream of. It had been damned hard, always expecting it to end suddenly. But it hadn't. We were both still here. Not quite in one piece, but we had each other, alive and kicking.

Alan Shore certainly hadn't been so lucky. He was what I had imagined myself to have become, any time over those past decades – a widower at forty, a widower at fifty-three. A widower, way too young. No one deserved that. I blew out the breath with gusto. Yet, here we were, at seventy. What had we ever done to merit such happiness? We were the lucky ones.

I grabbed Starsky by the shoulders and kissed him thoroughly for about a minute, before I was ready to let go of that feeling of need. I'd let go for now, but I wouldn't forget. Starsky grinned at me.

I reached for the door handle again, but looked back at him. He gave me the okay.

“Time to do some hand-holding.”

~~~

“Mr. Hutchinson, Mr. Starsky, please sit down.” The impeccably dressed fifty-year-old man with reluctantly receding dark blond hair and striking pale eyes shook our hands heartily. I took in his face, having seen his picture of course, but in real life he seemed a lot more intense, more real, and more in-your-face. I imagined the disarming round face and chubby cheeks in court as he decimated some clever opponent. He was probably just like Starsky, soft and fuzzy on the outside, but unbendingly dangerous if you crossed him.

Shore showed us to two comfortable leather seats. He walked around an oak desk that seemed to be designed not to impose, but merely to be admired. Even with this much wealth, this much power, the man didn't seem in control at all. In fact, he was nervous. No, he wasn't like Starsky at all, not by any stretch of the imagination. Yet something was there that appealed to me, which felt familiar, like an old leather jacket that has taken on the shape of my body to fit me perfectly. That was the extent of the Starsky-esqueness of this man.

I briefly checked my partner, who took the seat to my left, and saw him sizing up Shore. Starsky was not pleased, but that's how he had walked into this whole thing, in my opinion. He wasn't going to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I knew I wouldn't be able to convince him otherwise.

Even though I had never met Shore in person, I've had great admiration for the Legal Aid operation Crane On Shore ran. And yes, I had wondered a few times why they had contacted me specifically five years ago, out of thousands of lawyers and hundreds of competent retired lawyers. Or maybe I was just one of many, all across the country, or I had been picked at random. I had no insight into their set-up, and unlike the detective I used to be, had never had an inclination to ask more questions. Possibly a fatal error. We would find out soon.

“Drinks?” Shore asked, reaching for the side cabinet, also oak. It was decorated with elaborate carvings, creating a see-through effect, showing a sophisticated selection of spirits, carefully assembled for pleasure rather than volume.

“Not at this time of day, thanks,” Starsky said coldly.

Shore pulled up short. “No, of course not,” he said and changed course to sit behind the desk. “My apologies gentlemen, I have very little decorum on my best days, and this is nowhere near a good one.” His chair was positioned so that we could have a comfortable conversation, while no one was placed above anyone. The place oozed meticulous attention to detail, with nothing set up to intimidate the guests or clients.

“Maybe some coffee?” he tried again, but we declined. I couldn't stomach any more coffee until my next meal. I had never had the cast-iron bowels Starsky was endowed with, and age didn't help.

The man before us and our surroundings all confirmed the safe and sincere feeling I had had about Crane On Shore. I knew what Starsky was seeing wasn't rosy colored by any stretch of the imagination, but I was liking Shore more and more, even though we had barely gotten started.

“What is it you asked us here for, Mr. Shore?” I asked.

“It is a personal matter,” Shore said.

Okay. 'Personal'. Time stretched forward, and nothing seemed to move. We let him take his time, as we had done with so many witnesses and victims in our careers; it was second nature to us.

Then Shore slowly picked up a sheet of paper and handed it in our general direction. I saw the paper shaking ever so slightly with the trembling of his hand. His face was set in a non-expression. I accepted the paper, but didn't make a move to read it. We had not come here for something that can be emailed or faxed over.

“I'm asking you for help,” he said. “I need to shoot someone.”

Our hands were on our guns and we were on our feet before he had finished the sentence. The only reason we didn't draw was because Shore hadn't moved.

One step at the time. By the book.

“You are aware I'm a retired Police Captain, Mr. Shore?” Starsky slowly pulled his gun out so Shore could see it, not yet taking aim.

“I am. And I know you have guns. I'm used to living around concealed weapons. Denny was an avid fan. In fact, he would heartily applaud this show of power. He might think it's a bit restrained, though. He liked to pull, aim and shoot in one go, regardless of whether it was warranted. I always thought it wouldn't be such a bad way to go, by one of his stray bullets.” Shore calmly stood up, closed the two buttons of his bespoke jacket, and straightened himself up to almost Starsky's height. Despite being clearly unafraid of us, he was visibly trembling. “Normally I'd be the first to tell you to take everything I say with a heap of salt, but I assure you both -- I'm deadly serious when I say I need to shoot someone.”

He was not fooling around. But what was he trying to do?

“As a criminal law defense attorney yourself,” I let go of my gun, knowing Starsky had him covered, “you are well aware that you have just confessed to us your intent to murder or do bodily harm to someone. We could even charge you with trying to ask us to commit a crime for you. We could then all be charged for conspiracy to murder, which is a statutory offense for starters. You can believe me when I'm telling you, you don't want to put us into that position.”

He spread his hands in a negation in front of him. “This is not in any way intended to put you at risk. That's why I asked for you to come to the house. For the record, I'm not asking you to do any shooting for me. I'm trying to be the only one here at risk and keep the damage all around me down to a minimum. I'm committed to shoot someone, this is my burden. I can't do it alone, not under the current circumstances. I wish I could. And I wish I didn't have to, but that's beside the point. You're right, what I'm saying is intent to commit a crime. I won't change my intent. I will do this.” His poker-faced unflappability was downright creepy, even now that his effort to stay composed was slowly becoming visible. “You two are righteous men, with morals. Not a crooked bone in your bodies, metaphorically speaking. You don't even know half of my crooked bones, all metaphorical and very deeply buried. I know all there is to know about you. Most of your careers are a matter of public record. Not even your friend Huggy could dig up all the dirt there is on me. You're different, that's why I asked you here especially, because I know you won't let me get away with it.”

Our eyes met. Starsky kept his hand on his gun, but holstered it. He went back to standing guard.

“Mister Shore--”

He briefly threw up his hands. “Alan. Please. When talking something as intimate as committing crimes, I'd like to be on a first name basis.”

I considered my words. “Why are you stating your intent? We will report you, I think you know that. It's going to be a long haul in jail, at the very least. Or life, if the charge becomes murder.”

He nodded. “I will take whatever the appropriate punishment is for shooting someone, without the help of defense attorneys like myself who will pull rabbits out of their hats to get the client off. I don't mean to get off for this. I will do it, and I will face the consequences.”

Shore's manner and his words didn't seem to gel together at all. What he was saying was something a raving lunatic might say, but the way he was saying it was indicating a well-balanced, intelligent person. I reserved my opinion on which of the above Shore would turn out to be for the moment.

“Are you saying you want to do this, and then go to jail?” I asked.

“Oh I most certainly don't want to do it, and I seriously don't like jail. But I will do both, which is why I need your help,” Shore answered.

“So you don't want to kill this person. Just shoot him?” Starsky asked, having picked up on Shore's exact lawyer speak.

“Yes. In fact, the victim is already dead.” His tone faltered at the last word. His legs seemed to let go of all strength, and he sagged into his chair, his poker face softening into something more vulnerable. “I have no choice.” He breathed in, squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and collected himself. He seemed trained to hide his emotions, because a neutral mask was on his face a moment later.

How could I ever have thought this man had anything of a Starsky in him? Even though mutilating a corpse is not a crime but a misdemeanor, that merely took him off the danger-list and put him on the insane-list. Shore was full of deception and probably had a total lack of any moral sense of justice. I wasn't sure at this point if he even could actually love another human being.

I knew all about hiding emotions, I grew up in a fairly cold household, where such things were considered unseemly. But I had escaped that world, willfully and angrily, paying a hefty price for my freedom to feel. Shore seemed stuck in that place where hiding was the only way to survive. I knew the emotional cost of a mask like that in the long run. It was much greater than the price of finding my own way of life. And fortuntately I had met the right guy to help keep me from the slippery slope Shore was going down. Everyone should have a Starsky to nudge them out from under that mask. I pitied Shore at this moment. Something I hadn't expected at all.

He didn't have much of his stamina back when he breathed, “Please, Mister Hutchinson, would you be so kind as to read the contract now.” It was not an order. It was a plea to put him out of his misery.

We both sat down, though Starsk never took his hand off his gun.

I figured Shore wasn't immediately dangerous, so I put my attention on the sheet of paper he had handed me. It had several signatures on it.

I read, “'I, Alan Shore, have agreed to shoot and kill my husband Denny Crane, when the time comes.' It's followed by a description of the weapon to be used. Signed by Shore, Crane, and witnessed by Sack-Schmidt, Espenson and Espenson.”

“When what time comes?” Starsky asked.

I could see Shore losing his battle with his emotions. His voice was very thin. “Alzheimer's. He had it. Denny, I mean. He didn't want to die like that. Not knowing, not understanding, wasting away. I was with him every step of the way. From the first diagnosis to the last experimental drugs. I promised him, I'd do anything. Anything. He'd asked me to use a gun. He loves guns; anything that shoots, in any direction. He sucked at marksmanship himself.” A wistful smile played on his face. “You'd have to know him to understand. He asked me to do it and I said yes. I said I'd do it any way he wanted me to. And he wants -- wanted to be shot,” he pleaded with us, leaning over the desk. I was captivated by the tone of his voice, his mask fading away as he let us in. “To Denny, that's the best way to go.”

This man was no killer. And he was capable of love. He had obviously loved Denny. He had loved him so much that he had agreed to kill him because his husband wanted him to. Euthanasia in its rawest form.

“Mr. Shore,” Starsky said gently, finally letting go of his gun. He reached out to put a hand on Shore's trembling pair. “Denny Crane died two days ago.”

“I know. I know. That's the problem, you see. He was just going in for angina. Even the docs thought it was nothing. I told him we'd be out of there in a jiffy. Go chase the girls in the night clubs by noon the next day, for some unspeakable acts involving many body parts. He laughed at the prospect.” His voice trailed off, not sharing the joy of what he was describing. It sounded like the jokes we made about going to knock off banks in Bolivia when the going got tough. This was about as tough as it gets for these lawyers.

I grabbed Starsky's tablet. Maybe I could raise Huggy on it. I needed to know what had happened in that hospital. Even for Hug that might be a stretch, unless he could hack into hospital records. With current day security, I really doubted it. “What do we know, Starsk?” I asked in the mean time.

“Heart attack. Around midnight, Sunday.”

“He never made it home,” Shore said. “The doctors were wrong. It was not nothing, damn it. No amount of nurses were going to make him feel better again. But I didn't know that then. I needed to believe them. There's a rookie mistake right there.” I felt the tension he projected, as if he were holding onto something for dear life. “Docs wanted to keep him overnight. High risk case, etcetera. Little did they know what the risks were in his case. At eighty-one, most of the nurses would still have slept with Denny if he poured on the charm.”

I briefly exchanged looks with Starsky. All this talk about chasing women. They were legally married. Had that been a farce? Or for tax purposes? Neither of them had any dependents. That could fit the pattern.

“But Denny didn't want to stay in the hospital. I tried to pull all sorts of strings, offered to beg borrow and steal, castrate their dog, cheat on their taxes, anything they wanted, just to be able to take him home. But this time, they were insistent. I was getting scared, so I told him if he calmed down and stayed in the hospital, I'd crawl into bed with him. Told him, we could both lure the hot nurses.”

No sign of any mask on Shore now. This was a man telling us the plain truth of one of the hardest days of his life, and it was only two days ago. Would I be as composed if it had been Starsky and me?

“I could feel Denny needed his sleep though. He relaxed with me holding him, and he made no more mention of nurses. For Denny, that's downright disturbing.”

I could see shudders going through Shore, and I abandoned the attempt to connect to Huggy. The man seemed to have all the answers himself and he was finally able to talk.

“I was supposed to shoot him,” he said simply, not batting an eyelid, “but we fell asleep, and when I woke up, he was gone.”

I felt my breathing stop, as it had so many times in the past. I had to force a breath out and another in, to set it going again. It was not Starsky, I told myself. It was not Starsky.

Starsky still held the pale, manicured, soft skinned, paper-work hands. His leg moved slightly and our calves touched. I felt the choke-hold fade at the contact of my living lover. My partner, my all.

“Alan,” Starsky used the informal name Shore had requested earlier on. “We get what that's like.”

The pale gray-green eyes flicked to each of us. A quick check of sincerity.

“I still have to shoot him,” he repeated. “Do you get that too?”

Then it came to me. That's why Shore's questions on the phone had been weird. They were designed to try to find out covertly what our experience had been like as partners. How we dealt with the fear of losing the other, any time, anywhere, when we were together and when we were apart. Which was worse? I just told him, the worst one was when I knew he was hurt and I couldn't get him help. The age before cell-phones was the worst. Plain and simple. Everything after that fades in comparison.

I realized it was a lie, though. The worst times really were seeing him hurting, every single day, and hoping it would stop. The long-term stress of being a cop's lover. The age old story. But at least we've had those decades together, good times and bad, I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

These men had had less than ten years together. They had gotten a raw deal, meeting later in life. Too late almost, because of Denny's illness. In the end, he had faded away in the night. That, at least, was a nightmare that had never come to haunt us.

We had expected to die on the streets, out there, in action and mayhem; in a flash it would be all over. Or that the end would come quickly in a some dark alley unrelated to our jobs, just because we were shit-magnets and we knew it. Some type of violent, sudden deaths, before our time, with grizzly autopsy reports from doctors. Those were the expectations of cops and their partners.

But then there were Starsky's six scars, carved into his chest and back. Not to mention the operation scars on both of our bodies to take out other bullets and sew up shredded guts from knife wounds, and the strain on organs over poisons we were exposed to. And God knows what else. Sometimes death sneaks in slowly, instead of something you can fight with a gun or your brains or by running away from it. Alan had had that specter looming over his relationship with Denny for ten years. I did know how it felt.

Believe me, I have tried to forget the nights of cold sweat when I had held Starsky as he slept the sleep of the half-dead, not knowing if he wouldn't just drift away at some unguarded moment when I let my vigilance lapse. Then waking up with a start, knowing I had fallen asleep, knowing that either way I couldn't have done anything to prevent Starsky's body from giving out, so I had to admit defeat and try to sleep. It felt like giving up the fight, but it was the only way forward, the way that would help him most. Feeling his warm body, hearing his breathing, those were the only sources of relief to me. It was the dreaded nightmare I had lived so long, so very long ago. A nightmare I disliked to revisit.

Sweat was running down my back. Now I knew how to proceed. “How was the contract signed?” I asked.

“By my hand, witnessed by four people.” Shore was very steady of voice again, though nothing else changed. It was like he had off-loaded onto us his greatest fear and he was putting all his faith in us to solve it. Behind his unchanging expression, I recognized the determination of his ill-fated plan to somehow try to shoot Denny Crane, dead as he lay, probably in a funeral home somewhere close by. As insane as his situation was, I know I would feel the same about a promise to my husband, no matter how illegal or immoral.

“I mean, what was the situation? Did you want to sign it? Was Mr. Crane emotional about it?”

“I didn't want to sign it. He knew that. Denny said: 'You promised me, Alan. No time to welsh on a promise.' He knew I would sign it and that I'd do what I had promised.”

“What did the witnesses advise?”

“Shirley told me I was a fool to give into Denny's threats, but she'd stand by any craziness we concocted. Jerry and Katie were pretty much crying throughout the whole thing.”

“Back up. You said Denny threatened you?”

Shore looked at me and his face lost all expression. I took it as a sign he had let something slip. Must be a first for him.

Starsky took the contract. “Alan, in what way were you under threat?”

“Denny--” Shore seemed to need time before continuing. Maybe he didn't have his grip back? “Denny had made it clear he'd find his own way and time to end it, if I didn't promise to do it, when the time came.”

I vocalized what he didn't say, “Effectively giving himself less time than if he let you be the judge of it.”

Shore's face hardened again. “I was to be the executioner. Or--”

“Or he'd kill himself,” Starsky finished.

“So you were made unequivocally aware that your husband would commit suicide at some unsuspecting moment, if you didn't sign the contract, promising to shoot him in an attempt at euthanasia. You thereby rendered yourself liable to the law for manslaughter or murder, with a maximum sentence of life in prison.”

“Are you out of your ever loving mind?” Starsky asked, sounding incredulous. “Mr. Shore?”

“Ask anyone – I was never in my right mind to begin with. I don't claim that I am now.” Shore sounded quite resigned to that, as if it were a well known fact.

“Are you clear on where I'm going with this, though?” I asked.

“Very clear, Mister Hutchinson. The promise is null and void in a legal sense, because it was given under duress. Moreover, a contract can never contain an illegal act, making the contract about as useless as a chocolate teapot.” Shore said in a dull tone, as if he were reciting a law passage for an exam taken long ago.

“And you didn't know this before?” Starsky beat me to this one.

Shore seemed to make an attempt to stonewall again, but then answered, “Of course I knew. I've forgotten more about the law than most lawyers learn in a life-time. I should say something modest after that, but I'm not into modesty. Another personal flaw, I'm afraid.” Again a pause, maybe to put himself back on the original question. “To be honest, though, I think I just conveniently didn't register it. It's amazing what tricks a cunning brain can miss under the right type of emotional pressures. I'm sure there are hordes of psychiatrists who would love to corroborate that. All I could think about was my husband trying to die with dignity, and the only way in which I could preserve his peace of mind--”

“Was by giving up your own.”

“No great loss there, David; I've never had peace of mind.”

A chill was in the room that hadn't been there before. Shore wasn't breaking down any further. He was now a man with information and a purpose. That which I had mistaken for a mask was firmly back in place, but it wasn't a shield to keep the world out, like I had thought. It was a vessel to contain himself, so as not to unleash himself upon the world with fury and passion. Shore was clearly as vulnerable now as he was a minute ago, but he had learned to take himself in hand expertly. A skill I myself had slowly and painstakingly learned over the years, making life a lot more bearable.

A little reflective smile played on Shore's face. He seemed resigned to his own understanding. “Can't lose what I never had. My husband needed me to do something for him and I promised him I would. I fulfill my promises to friends and -- well, mostly just my friends.”

“No,” I said, realizing Shore's last error in reasoning, “his real need, his real request, was for you, his husband, to be there for him, and make sure he would die before life became unworthy of living.”

Shore blinked, the meticulous facade wavering a bit.

I pressed the point home. “You gave him that. In fact, you gave him everything. You had promised your whole self and your future to him, knowing full well you'd be convicted and you wouldn't survive jail for long.” Shore didn't interrupt to contradict me, he just sat with that blank look on his face. “This act and its consequences would be the end of you, as it was of him when he died. It was a risk you willingly took on because you loved him. You love him.” I corrected. “Denny Crane died in good spirits, in your arms. From your description, he didn't suffer any humiliations and he wasn't alone. This is all a spouse, a lover, a husband can ask for.”

Shore spoke slowly and precisely, “Are you saying I have fulfilled my promise after all?”

“He's damn well saying that,” Starsk piped up. My husband has the best ways of cutting to the heart of the matter. “And then some. Didn't he die in your arms, safe and happy?”

“Yes.”

“Didn't he die before he deteriorated, knowing he was loved by you and was having adventures up until the very end?”

“Yes, he was. The nurses only just escaped becoming his next Viagra-powered conquests,” Shore said.

I put my hand on Starsk's thigh and said, “The most important thing here is, he was loved. He died in peace. And you did that, Alan. You.”

“From what you told us, all Denny wanted was to avoid suffering and to know you were there for him. The gun was just a means to an end. So was the contract.”

“Tear up that thing,” I said, “or I will.” I made a grab for it, missing it on purpose. Maybe that would lighten the mood. “It's worth the paper it was written on, which is not even a penny.”

“I now have no excuses left to execute my promise.” Shore sounded bereft. “What do I do?”

“You are young, Mr. Shore. You have a life ahead of you.”

“As a double widower in his early fifties?”

I grabbed the tablet, scrolled, and yes, found a deceased wife. This man had no luck whatsoever. I showed Starsky, who just shook his head. He already knew.

I had nothing in my arsenal to alleviate such tragedy. Any more suggestions would be trite.

“Kenneth,” his eyes pleaded to go to a first name basis. I allowed it. “What would you do, if your husband died?”

Fuck, he zeroed in on the right person here. I left no time for my brain to start imagining the scenario. “I would hold on for dear life.”

“But hold onto what?” his voice grew thin again.

Starsky's leg was now blatantly alongside mine, to bring more thigh surface in contact with me. Starsky knew. I knew he knew. And Shore also knew. This was the million dollar question.

“My husband's wishes. The last thing Starsk would ever want for me is to end it all when he's dead.” I didn't need to check with my lover to know the truth of that. “He'll have a bunch of plans for me to do, like learn to win at Monopoly, and watch all the episodes of Cagney and Lacey.”

“All 125 episodes,” Starsk piped in, “and no skipping.”

“And then he'd want me to dust myself off, go out there and do some good in the world, make a difference to someone's life. Until I could be home again and find some joy in living for the sheer fact that I was alive and surviving. It would be the hardest thing I'd ever do, but I would do it for him. He wants me to have a life, a real life. Not just a shell.

“My lover, my husband, has a flair for life, Alan, and I think so did yours. Denny Crane sounds like quite the character. We must learn from them, we can learn how to enjoy life. Even--” Damn, I had started to imagine the hated scenario after all. Now I was going to finish voicing it. “Even when he's no longer here to drag us into the land of the living.”

“I was worse off alone before I met him,” said Shore. “That's the undeniable truth. Denny was my shining beacon in the darkness, and he never even knew it. He never got what the decidedly unpleasant inside of my head looks like, and that was just fine with me. I wanted to live inside of his head, not share mine. His was full of joy, sex and all sorts of desires, completely devoid of any sense of propriety. I loved that so much. He tried to make every one of his passions come true, and I helped him at every turn he'd let me. Then suddenly he wanted to marry me. Can you imagine? What had I done to deserve that?”

I looked at Starsky for a brief moment, knowing I had asked that same question when he became mine. What had I done to deserve Starsky? I knew so intimately how that felt, and how grateful I feel every day.

Alan continued, “I couldn't believe he really meant it, so I made him ask me several times before I could wrap my warped brain around it. How could I refuse the light of my life anything he wished? Even though I couldn't imagine he could really want me. But I'm selfish enough to take what I'm offered, knowing Denny was wasting himself on the likes of me.”

Starsky said clearly, “There is no way he made a mistake. Denny woulda known he wanted you for real. There's no use in second-guessing our loved ones anyway. Just take them as they come and be grateful.”

I closed my eyes. God was I grateful. Every day I woke up feeling grateful next to my man, my lover, my everything. Every year I counted another year spent together with him that I had not expected to have. In fact it had taken a very long time for me to take anything for granted with Starsky. I've had four decades of having this man in my life. But it wasn't until after he finally retired in 2000, that I'd started to relax.

I opened my eyes and searched the man I loved out. Maybe I did finally take him for granted every once in a while. Like an old married couple, who had forgotten what it was like when they didn't have each other always right there, unfailingly steady. Something to count on, despite the knowledge that life is ever so precious and in our line of work, ever so fleeting, if that stray bullet found you. In light of all those forty years, I delighted that I felt so secure in having him now. I had to smile a little at that thought. Even if he died before I did, I have had what I wanted. I have had a life together.

Shore's hands fell in his lap, making him look less in charge than he had been up till now. “Denny gave me his entire fortune.”

“He loved you,” Starsky said plainly. Had he been thinking anything like what I'd been thinking? I couldn't tell. Starsky was right there with the case at hand, as sharp and clear as he'd ever been.

“Yes, he loved me. That's not why he gave me his money. Or maybe it is. He wanted his money to go towards something other than taxes. He hates taxes. He wanted me to enjoy the money.” A smile brewed, despite himself. “Denny didn't understand the first thing about doing good in the world. He just knew what he liked and set his life up to cater to himself. He was gloriously hedonistic and I was his apprentice. But he didn't get that there are people in need out there. People who're suffering, through no fault of their own.” He smirked. “Not that I care if it's any fault of their own, really. Sometimes life is risky and at least these people have the guts to live it. That's more than I can say for myself.”

Starsky indicated the room, as if it was what Shore was referring to. “The Crane On Shore Legal Assistance Foundation. You set it up with his money?”

“The world of corporate and criminal law is a hard and nasty one, and I fit right into that particular crowd. I'm very good at it, and I scare myself that I don't scare myself by that. So I did it, trying to find some meaning, something worth going for wholeheartedly. Like plunging into a woman when she's just exactly ready.” He looked decidedly unshocked, but as if he were checking out how shocked we were.

We weren't. We'd been there, done that, and had gone back for more. Now it was Starsky's turn to smirk. “Or plunging into a man, as the case may be.”

“Quite so. Preferably a variety, if at all possible. But oddly enough, in all that searching amongst the deliciously depraved, the possibly insane and the delightful justice or injustice of the law, I found out I want to help the underdog. This gave me the greatest pleasure. Fighting the big corporations for the sake of the individual. Never mind who's in the right. It's all about who has the power. Or rather, who doesn't have it.”

We knew all about that. Nearly our entire careers had been about fighting those in power, from the lowliest pimp subjugating their 'workers', to Gunther Industries and bought off judges.

“The big law firms need to make money and aren't interested in the underdog. I made them lots of money, money to go into rich people's pockets. Denny made untold heaps of money for them. He delighted in saying he had more money than God.”

“Did Denny want to marry you so you could use his fortune to set up a legal aid?” Starsky still seemed suspicious about this marriage.

“Legal and tax reasons are perfectly acceptable reasons to get married, Starsk,” I said, more for the sake of Shore than for thinking Starsky was passing judgment on him.

“No, I don't mind,” Shore's hands were back in the air, putting him in control again. “Yes, it was for money. But no amount of money can buy me. He cared about the money being used well or pleasurably. I couldn't give a monkey's behind whether he was Daddy Warbucks or little orphan Annie. I married him because I loved him and he needed me. He said he loved me. Either way, he had no one else – and quite frankly, neither do I. I sleep better with him. I think I married him long before we got married.”

“So you guys never--?” Starsky again.

I felt it was none of our business, but I had to admit I was curious about the answer.

Shore grinned. “I do want some romance in my marriage, David. Whenever I wanted Denny to respond, all I had to do was dress up in a tight outfit, something with big breasts, anywhere from sixties Motown to middle aged lady with a purse. He loved me in drag.”

Starsky was grinning, getting the playful nature of Alan and Denny. That type of stuff was pretty much passing me by. I preferred Starsky as he was, in his masculine beauty, with no embellishments whatsoever. Naked is good. Both naked is better. So sue me.

“The cheerleader outfit was a big hit.”

Three men giggled.

“So when we leave here,” I said, bringing things back to stark reality, “will you still eat your gun? Or will you honor your husband's wishes and live a good, long life?”

“Which gun?”

I pointed around the room to the nooks and crannies and Starsky waved at the other obvious hiding places.

“Any which one,” my lover said.

Shore followed and peered at the dark, shady corners, with easy access and little visibility. There were weapons in each of them.

“We'd have to take them out to see what types they are and whether or not they're loaded. But I really didn't think that'll be necessary. Do you?”

“Denny said he had the place well protected, but I didn't realize he had hidden all of these. That's just like him, though.”

“It's a good thing you're the defense attorney then,” Starsky sat comfortably and was showing his hands, to indicate we didn't believe Shore to be hostile or dangerous anymore, to himself or others. “And we're the detectives.”

“Indeed. I would be an abysmal failure at police work, I assure you. The only thing I was ever really good at was laying out and busting cunning plans and defending the guilty. Not work I want to return to, ever.”

“I hope not,” said Starsky, making it sound like advice, rather than a statement.

“I promise, I'll live a fun life, as Denny intended.”

A little too much sugar on top, maybe? Starsky beat me too it.

“Here he goes again with the promises. Listen, why don't you come chill out at our place sometime, huh? Take that legal aid stuff with you. You and Hutch can talk plans for changing the world into a better place for the needy, and I can make us pizza and lasagna.”

The first genuine smile appeared on Shore's face. “I'm honored.”

“It's nothing. Ain't it, Hutch?”

“Definitely feel free to visit. No need to bring guns. Starsky and I are well-armed.”

“Hutch here wouldn't visit his mother without his gun.”

“Neither would Denny.” Shore didn't chuckle, but we did.

“Before we leave, is there anything else we can do for you, Alan?” Now that he had shown himself to be a person with warm blood in his veins, I decided the first name basis would work out. But I would have to let him know not to call me Kenneth again.

“No need to concern yourselves about me anymore. I would like to ask you to dinner though. And if it's okay with your plans – this house is big. It's very big. We have more rooms than you can shake a stick at. Will you stay until your return flights? I believe I'd sleep better with you two around.”

Our hotel room could easily be canceled, so we had no objections.

“Allow me to pour you that drink now.”

~~~

The sculpted garden was as lovely by evening light as I had imagined. The neighborhood had grown even more domestic, as faint fragrances of home cooking wafted through the air, and slowly lights went on behind the windows of all the neighbor’s living rooms.

There was nothing left of that stone cold display of bombastic wealth of earlier today. The outdoor lounge chairs were comfortable beyond belief, as if the utmost care had been taken to select them. Sizing up Alan Shore, I assumed great care had been involved.

I was glad he had invited us to stay in the house. It would be good to keep an eye on him during the night, even from across the hall. I didn't feel that he was going to kill himself now. Maybe all he had needed was to be released from the past and to find a new purpose in life. Picking up the pieces wouldn't be easy, but he could do it. He was intelligent and creative enough to reinvent himself. He'd been rated among the top lawyers in the country, certainly the top in Boston. Nothing got past him, according to scuttlebutt. And by decree of Huggy, who had filled in all the blanks between our meeting with Alan and the luxurious dinner he had put on for us.

He was a consummate host, one trained by example, like those I remember from back in Duluth, more than half a life-time ago. I recognized the type, but Alan had a sincerity about him as he did things. It was clear he would never do anything that reeked of decorum, or because it was expected of him. This gave everything he did a raw edge of clean honesty that I rather liked, sort of like Starsky.

Starsky was swirling the well-aged, high quality Highland single malt around in his tumbler, clearly enjoying the soft fragrance. Mine was mingling with the night air, and I was enjoying looking at Starsky right this moment as much as I was enjoying my own glass.

Not that I forgot about our host, of course. How could one forget Alan Shore, when he's in your company. But there was some unfinished business, which had started to become apparent during dinner, as we were exposed to a less guarded version of this prime-time lawyer.

“Alan,” I ventured. “Why did you ask us here, really?”

Shore simply puffed on his cigar and looked out into the night.

Starsky asked, “What are you thinking, babe?”

“This is a man who makes no mistakes, Starsk. He argued the Supreme Court twice and won both times. He won against the tobacco industry for Christ’s sake, a completely unheard-of feat. Alan is a man of rhetoric, all his words are carefully chosen for a purpose, measured and exact. He never misses a beat. He thinks on his feet faster than a speed chess champion. It's his job. Words are his talent. Isn't that so, Alan?”

Alan did not so much as blush under all this praise. The man was way ahead already, of course. I knew he knew where I was going with it. He graced me with a response though. “Sometimes I just talk so long that the jury loses all sense of what the real issue was. It's just a crude and underhanded way of putting them in my corner, so they will vote whichever way I want them to.”

Starsky blew right over his Scotch. “That's as close to corrupt as any damn lawyer I've had the misfortune to deal with. Excluding present company,” he added to me.

Like I said, Starsky hates lawyers, always has. And we were clear about it from the start of my renewed career in the paper pushing part of the law. But since most of my cases are admittedly not bringing in any great heaps of money, we still lived in our small house in Venice, and not in a mansion of riches like Denny and Alan.

So Starsky tolerates me being a lawyer, but that doesn't keep him from voicing his opinions. Opinions I shared most of the time, quite frankly.

“I know the system is corrupt, David,” Alan said plainly. “I'm just as corrupt with it, and I don't excuse myself for it. I don't ask you to see me as anything else but what I am. I had no problem living in that world, even though I knew everything about it was wrong, unjust and immoral. Denny was great at it. He just didn't give a damn about any of that stuff: morality, righteousness. That's the best way to work within the system. Although I believe he felt righteousness when it came down to the wire. For most of the time I thought I didn't care either, obviously not enough to leave.” He took a pause that seemed rehearsed, like a pregnant pause before a profound statement in court. “You're wrong, though. I do make mistakes. I've made terrible mistakes, and let the guilty go free. I pleaded the case of innocence of my best friend from back home, because I believed him. Then I found out my good friend, whom I trusted, was in fact guilty of cold blooded murder.* And I got him off. I was that good. And I was dead wrong.”

I felt I knew exactly what he was talking about. “This happened to us too.* We were deceived. I'm certain you were too.”

Alan shook his head. “I was clever enough to get him off, but completely failed to see through his web of friendship and lies. I'm in no way good, righteous or guiltless. I just get jobs done, like a hired assassin. So I created my own justice system, applied my own sense of righteousness. Sometimes I was the final judge and jury. Not very morally justifiable, and certainly not always legal. I just deemed it necessary at the time. Maybe, in the final analysis, oddly enough, it turned out I did give a damn. But I certainly didn't really know that about myself, until I was confronted with the opportunity to start working for the poor for real. No little handouts here and there, no backhanded blackmail in order to get those in power to do the 'right' thing. And I can't say I didn't enjoy all of those things tremendously. But at Crane On Shore we are creating access to proper sustaining help and information that enable people to get out of their untenable situations. I find myself almost believing we make some change in this world for the better. And it's all legal, to boot.”

“That's what Hutch wants.” The look on Starsky's face was like the one he had had back when I had finished explaining what I wanted to do with my law degree. More acceptance than approval, but I knew my Starsky. He wouldn't invite someone into our house if he disapproved of him. “Looks like you both will have lots to talk about then.”

“See what I mean, Starsk,” I said. “He's great with words.”

The Alan Shore speech had struck again. It seemed to me he could make one up at the press of a button. “Earlier today, Alan let a clue slip. I caught him, so I could argue the illegality of the contract.” Then to Alan I added, “You did that on purpose, didn't you, Mister Shore?”

He raised his glass to me. “You got me.”

I wasn't surprised, but I was surprised he would admit it so readily. “Why all this then?”

He took a great swallow of his own Scotch before answering. “I knew I had to face real emotional justice over the contract. I couldn't let Denny down. By letting you two be my judge jury and executioner, I had some chance of coming out of this in one piece. Maybe you two would've immediately turned me in, but then I would've had no chance to pick up a gun and do the unspeakable.” He used his middle fingers and ring fingers of either hand to pick his lapels up and showed the inside of his jacket. “I never carry a weapon. Mine is in a safe, behind a lock that I have to fiddle with for minutes to open it under any circumstances.” He let them drop and nursed his cigar and tumbler. “I was hoping that together you would come up with something better. Some solution, some way out. Maybe I did set it all up, but it was up to you to make of it what you would. It was a gamble, but it was much safer than what my own brain was telling me to do. So I called for you, hoping for a solution, hoping you'd judge me, even execute me, if need be. I deserved no acquittal, so there was no down-side to the plan, as far as I could see. I threw myself at your mercy. I didn't know what you would do, or what I would do. But this was a damn sight better than--”

“Committing a gruesome misdemeanor on your husband, and eating your gun straight afterward,” I finished for him, unceremoniously.

Starsky cut through the whole thing with his usual way of keeping me grounded. “No more complicated thought patterns that just screw up your here and now. It won't bring Denny back, and it would certainly not make him happy. In fact, he'd probably be the first to get behind you smiling and toasting him and enjoying life as he wanted you to.”

“Here, here,” I said, knowing the wound was too fresh to say anything more useful than what had already been said. Starsky was damn right. “I know the fun doesn't start today. But I'll drink to fun in the future. And I believe I have Denny's blessing when I toast to that with this exceptionally good scotch, in this house and garden of love, surrounded by the most excellent of men.”

“Here's to hedonism,” Alan raised his drink in our direction, showing a great effort and resilience.

“To pizzas and jacuzzis,” Starsky added.

“We have one in the en-suite of the guest room, you know,” Alan said.

Starsky almost spit out the scotch before he could swallow.

“Oh yes. And there's one in the cabin in the garden, if you don't mind company.”

Starsky simply stared at that, lost for words.

Alan continued, “If you enjoy jacuzzis, I can have one installed at your place before I come over, if you like. Do you have a spot for it?”

Starsky's dumbfounded moment didn't last long. “Hutch, I like the friends you make.”

“Does it come with a cheer leading costume?” I asked.

“No, but mine will probably fit David here. Interested?”

I just shook my head. I suddenly had two nutcases on my hands!

I held up my glass again, to life in general. “I'll drink to that.”

I heard Starsky gasp as I downed the last of my first glass of the evening. 

 

_* The case Alan referred to was the one involving his best friend Paul Stewart in The Practice. The friend Starsky and Hutch referred to is John Colby. Both involved deep betrayal._


End file.
